


A Dancing Tune

by noapteinger (cascadewaters)



Category: Ladyhawke (1985)
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, Humor, Spanking, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:08:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cascadewaters/pseuds/noapteinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His least favorite song...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dancing Tune

A Dancing Tune  
By firechild  
Rated PG  
Disclaimer: I could live with owning Matthew Broderick, but alas, I have not been so bequeathed. None of these are mine.  
Warning: References to familial dynamics and corporal punishment.  
A/N: I’m answering my own prompt for comment_fic on LJ – the first line of the fic is the prompt. I just couldn’t get this out of my head.

\-----

Whenever Nevarre started calling his name in that singsong voice, Phillippe knew that he was in for it.

“Oh, Philliiippe, where aaare youuu?”

Why was it that the man was only musical when he was angry and feeling particularly sadistic? He wasn’t even a musical drunk (which Phillippe happened to know for a fact, as he was responsible for getting Nevarre into such a state, just once, a few weeks ago,) which, while he was rather proud of the cleverness he’d had to show to pull it off, had on the whole rather disappointed him because the only differences between a drunk Nevarre and a sober Nevarre were worse breath, reddish eyes, and a suspicious tendency to howl at anything round and white. It had been an interesting experiment, but not nearly as entertaining as one might expect. Besides, in order for his experiment to work, he’d had to get Isabeau lightly drunk, as well, and the sight of her suffering even the minor pain of the morning after had given Phillippe a stomach ache.

Ah, well—just as long as neither Nevarre nor Isabeau decided to investigate precisely how they’d wound up unwittingly drunk from simple cordial (and how Phillippe had not,) no one would be howling.

“Philliiiiiipe, Little Mooouuuse, come out, come out, wherever you aaaaare.”

The young reformed (in a matter of speaking) thief tucked himself more tightly into his hiding place. He knew from unfortunate experience that the longer Nevarre had to look for him, the more… uncomfortable things would be when they settled in for the inevitable discussion, but that didn’t sway the boy’s determination to put off said discussion for as long as possible—after all, if Phillippe Gaston were a man of sense, he’d never have attempted to escape from the dungeons of Aquila, and then where would they all be? 

While he used a fraction of his concentration to control the volume of his breathing and to make sure that none of his small form could be seen from outside, he set the rest of his brain power to figuring out what he’d done this time to incur Nevarre’s peculiarly colorful kind of displeasure. He knew it wasn’t about the inebriation (he’d covered his tracks with extra care, even making sure to behave spotlessly for a couple of weeks afterward, and they’d never guess,) but if he was completely honest with himself, something he generally went out of his way to avoid doing on principle, there’d been at least half a dozen small indiscretions in the past week or so, things that he’d done for amusement or simply out of habit and that he’d never have thought twice about, but which he suspected his new… guardians… wouldn’t consider quite so innocuous. He wasn’t sure why such silly things mattered so much to them, but as Nevarre had demonstrated, ah, with extreme prejudice, certain behaviors—the redistribution of others’ possessions, harmless reshaping of the truth, diversionary sleights of hand and tricks of the intellect, not being precisely where he was expected to be, pretty much the only things that had kept Phillippe alive (apart from being relatively light on his feet)—didn’t amuse the captain and the lady. 

Now he just had to figure out which one of those tiny, insignificant bits of entertainment had earned the poor, mistreated seat of his thinning trousers yet another completely unnecessary round with the Avenging Right Hand Of The Holy Church. Nevarre might not have a musical bone in his body, but Phillippe had a distinct feeling that he was about to find himself dancing.


End file.
